The Other Side Of That Which Is
by InNyxITrust
Summary: Set in a dystopian nation, ruled with an iron fist by the dark leader 'He Who Is'. A young boy, Citizen 11-32-K, aka Harry struggles to find his way. AU, Diverges from Canon around 11 years before Book Series. Rated M for Violence, Abuse, and occasional Language. Will contain large amounts of Severitus. No ships as of yet, but maybe down the road. Please R&R.


The Other Side of That Which Is

Streams of blue and violet magical tendrils pour forth from the metallic node set into the wall on the west end of the room. They arc through the air before landing on the outstretched palm of a middle aged woman. Her body is alive with magical current. Her Mouth is open in constant exhale, her eyes blank and unseeing. Her other hand is locked around the grasp of a younger man. The current sparks around and around his body as well, traveling along his arm to yet another body. And on it goes, increasing in power with each additional host. The last woman in the line of fifteen bodies is literally indistinguishable from the blue-white fire that encircles her body. It leaps from her hand in crackling white ropes to another metallic node set onto the east wall of the room, nearly three times as powerful as when it entered.

A small, black haired boy in a white coat walks down the line, clip board in hand. He makes notes on the fatigue levels of the various power conduits; which of them need substitution and nourishment. And which are nearing their dates of expiration.

He is citizen 10-K-32. 10 for the years he has lived. K for his sector designation. And 32 for his identification number within his subset.

His given-name is Harry. He has no friends, no last name. He has no claim nor ties to anyone outside of his sector.

He is a ward monitor, a task to does proudly. It is his duty, no…his privilege to maintain the power output to the barriers surrounding the compound he calls his home.

The men and women before him are comatose. They are given potions daily to keep them in stasis. They act as converters for the magical energy used in up keeping the wards; they recycle and replenish it with their own magical cores.

Harry has performed his job since he arrived to the compound six years ago. He was supposedly transferred from a collection agency, a storage unit for children with no family or rank designation.

Each day, he and the other 10's have classes from hours seven to fourteen, in which they learn basic reading, writing, mathematics, and history of their nation. They then proceed to their given-jobs from hours fifteen to twenty-one.

A chime from the security orb hovering in the corner of the room alerts him that it is the end of his shift. A young girl, an 8 by the look of it, walks to him. She takes the clipboard, salutes him, and says "Go in the name of He Who Is" before resuming the task he had been doing moments before.

Harry quickly marches down the hall towards his dormitory. As he walks down a non-descript gray hall he halts before the framed photograph of 'He Who Is'. He bows to the Silver Masked Face in the frame, salutes to the flag hanging on the wall next to it, and murmurs to the orderlies on either side of the photo, "Truth in the name of He Who Is". He continues on down the hall when an amplified voice come from the walls "Attention all 10's. Please report directly to the assembly hall for a directive from the Matron."

Harry sighs…and about faces. He does the same ritual with the photo and flag as he passes and falls into step with the stream of other 10's heading towards the assembly hall.

The children stand at attention, each in his or her own predetermined place in the line. A door on the side of the hall opens and the Matron of the Nursery walks in and to the podium before them. She glances at them with a tight lipped smile, before declaring,

"Tomorrow marks the day. The day by which you have lived 11 glorious years under the regime of our great Lord, "He Who Is.

"Tomorrow you shall spend your final day in the nursery, before leaving to start your adult lives." She steps from behind the podium and begins a slow walk toward the assembled children. "Whether you turn to the path of Building, the honorable station of Nurturing" she motions herself, "or a life of servitude in the militia of 'He Who Is'", all are respectable niches in our lives.

"As with all progression days, you will have the honor of taking your reflections; Your reflections…The reflections are that which makes us..." She stops and looks at the rows of children expectantly.

An chorus of "REMEMBER" echoes through the hall.

"Those that help us have"

"HONOR"

"Those that help us to be"

"STRONG"

"Those that help us to"

"PURIFY"

She looks very pleased and saunters back to the podium before breathing in and continuing, "Yes my children. Those four laws. To Remember. To have Honor. To be Strong. To Purify.

"Remember the past, those who fought tooth and nail, and those who paid the ultimate sacrifice to secure our glorious nation from the grasp of the corrupt. Be honorable in everything you do. Each step you take in your life will be to honor every other hard working individual you meet, and to honor the collective society. Strength, not just physical endurance, but also mental discipline. Be strong, and you can overcome anything you meet. Be strong and you draw a larger gap between the unworthy ones, and ourselves. Purity...Purity is our core, our fundamental belief. A close brother to Remembrance, Honor, and Strength; it is that which gives us the nation we live in today. It is that which shows the world we are a force to be reckoned with. It is that which He Who Is has dilligently strived for every day. Purify yourself of weakness, of sloth, of disgrace.

"Live by our four laws and you shall be strengthening not only your own resolve, but that of of our nation.

"Now, proceed into the waiting hall until your designation is called before entering your individual reflection booth."

...

Harry stands, back straight, hands clasped behind his back. To his left is a gap normally occupied by citizen 10-31-K, a petite girl, currently in her own reflection booth. While to his right stands a burly boy, Citizen 10-33-K.

From an orb hovering in the center of the room comes a disembodied voice, "Citizen 10-32-K, please proceed to station number twelve."

Harry walks from the line in a quiet controlled manner to the specified station, lifts aside the sheeting and steps into the reflection booth. A ministry official in a pale grey robe stands next to a straight backed chair before a wooden table with an iron bowl full of swirling silver filaments, and motions for him to sit, but this routine is so ingrained into his mind that it is second nature. He sits, pulls the chair forwards, and presses his face into the surface of the swirling tendrils within the bowl.

The first scene that appears as the tendrils clear is of a near finished battle. History lessons tell him that it is the final uprising, the quelling of the last rebellion on grounds of what used to be the old magical school, Hogwarts. He can see a group of ragged, tired rebels huddled together behind pitiful sickly blue shields, firing pathetic stunners every now and then.

The line of soldiers approaching them is clean-cut, precise, methodical.

The appear as a long line of black robed men, women, and teenagers, all clad in grinning masks. 'Death Eaters' rings through his memory. They move in unison, bending their line from the center until it wraps around the circle of rebels, and as one begin an onslaught of vicious colorful curses

And what a poor lot they are. One haggard witch, grey hair pinched up into a tight bun. A half-breed man, towering over the rest, with a scraggly brown beard. A red-haired girl, barely 19, with striking green eyes. Some other assorted men and women, one with a peg leg and a scarred face, another wearing a garishly yellow robe. And the crowning jewel, a bespectacled old man, silver beard grey with filth, wand held out, sustaining the massive shields surrounding them all.

Yet they are tiring themselves faster and faster. So much that the concentration of their leader, the old man, breaks for a millisecond, yet long enough for several spells to sail through and rebound off the inner walls of the shields taking down the group from the inside.

A solitary man begins to walk from the back of the line of death eaters. They part for him like fish in the sea, this man robed in dark forest green. He wears a mask himself, yet his is luminescent silver. He strides on until he reaches the line of soldiers and steps past.

The figure surveys the fallen rebels, the giant of a man wheezing upon the ground, the red haired girl, clutching a wound on the side of her face, blood dripping from behind her pale fingers.

And he begins to laugh. Not just any laugh, but a dark, haunting, triumphant laugh.

"It has come to this at last. The end of the end of your charade." His voice is smooth, flowing.

The man turns to face the circle of death eaters, "My faithful followers, you who have cast aside the bonds of slavery of this whimsical society and entered into a realm of truth, purity, and dignity, you who have waited for the day when wizards like these" He gestures dismissively behind him. "Will stop their regime of filth and ignorance. You, who have been steadfast to the end, will be rewarded now beyond your wildest dreams. For you shall the be the heralds of a new era. An era of reclamation, and of enlightenment. Wizarding kind shall retake what is rightfully ours, and crush all who dare say otherwise."

He lifts his wand and the rebels rise as one in the air above the army of death eaters, bodies stiff, eyes darting in fear, pain, and panic.

"For there is no greater honor than that of serving your nation. Of being a true wizard."

A burst of crackling purple energy erupts from his wand, arcing towards the rebels poised in the air. He tilts his head and the silencing charm on them lifts. Where the lightning meets flesh, it sizzles and chars, flames igniting and leaping across the space to fall to the ground.

Amidst the screams and cries above, a low whisper begins from the center of the army below. It buzzes and swells, growing from a murmur to a mantra, into a pledge of service. Of Honor.

"He who is…He who is…He Who Is…He Who Is….HE WHO IS. HE WHO IS! HE WHO IS!"

A movement surges through the death eaters, they straighten and stand tall, before cracking off a salute in unison to the man before them, "He Who Is."

The man points his wand skywards and a stream of green and black smoke floods from the tip.

As the death eaters continue to hold their salute, as the rebels continue to burn amidst flames and crackling energy, the face of a skull entwined with a snake shines above them.

"Those that help us to have HONOR"

The first memory fades and Harry finds himself behind an examination table. To his left and right are witches and wizards clad in navy robes; in front of them are a row of nearly a hundred eleven year old children.

A man rises to Harry's right and speaks, "Ninety-Six of you stand here. You are the finest of our nation's untrained youth.

"Today you will prove your willingness to be strong. Strong enough to enter the Academy. Ninety-Six of you stand here. But only twenty of you will leave today."

He murmurs something and a violet dome springs up to surround the boys and girls. Some have a look of panicked confusion, whilst others are merely tightening their grips on their wands, bending their knees in preparation.

"You may begin to show your Strength…Now"

Immediately several boys and girls duck to the floor, rolling towards the edges of the wards to keep their backs to the walls. They start to fire off hexes, jinxes, curses all in quick succession. Of those that did not start offensively, the smarter are quick enough to pull up shield charms or cast illusions to hide themselves. The unfortunate others however, soon fall to the floor, some from stunners, others from deadlier spells.

Harry watches with a grim set faces. Never before has this scene been easy to watch. Never before has it been a simple act of closing his eyes, for he can still hear the spells being called out, the cries of pain and terror from those that simply are not strong enough to please the examiners.

Till eventually the man rises again to call, "Enough!"

The dome falls. The twenty remaining children step back into a ragged line, bloodied, bruised, yet unwilling to show any sign of how shaken or afraid they might be.

"Congratulations. You are the strongest of the strong to arrive here today. During your stay at one of our four academies you will be challenged, tested, and tried to your very limits. I know that each and every one of you will live up to that expectation. You are true citizens. You are Strong."

The memory fades once more and Harry hears a soft echo "Those that help us to be STRONG".

The gray mists of memory, fog and clear again as he falls into the third and final trip in store for him, noting the washed out quality of the light upon the walls, the cold bench he sits upon, the rows of straight backed children, all age 6, as they watch the scene unfolding in the front of the room.

"Those that help us to purify" echoes in his mind.

He knows this room. He has spent every 10th and 11th hour of all his years in this room, learning arithmetic. He knows this scene in particular, just the same way that every child his age knows it. The way they all will relive it, as they step into their own reflection booth.

A small, quivering child stands in the front of the classroom before a glaring robed wizard. The child has just been asked to answer a simple multiplication problem; and recite the rules of distributive factoring.

But instead, he has answered incorrectly. He has answered incorrectly and has failed to acknowledge his own mistake. And so the Teacher has pulled out his wand and sent a silent cutting hex at the child's upturned palm, punishment for its disobedience. What happens next however, has sealed the child's fate.

He has cried out in pain from his punishment. He has shown himself to be weak. A waste.

Which brings Harry to the point in the memory which he has recently entered.

The teacher raises his wand to his own throat and speaks in an amplified voice "Purifier to the East Wing, Mathematics Room Six".

The children wait until moments later, as the door opens and a lone white robed woman glides into the room.

The teacher looks from his class to the boy and then back again, "This boy here, Citizen 6-7-K, has been lazy. Too lazy to learn and better himself. He has been not only lazy, but also undiciplined. He has been weak. Note his tearful eyes, the pitiful quiver of his knees, the pain he openly displays on his face at his rightfully deserved punishment. He is a disgrace to not only our nation, but all of Wizarding kind."

He nods to the woman, the purifier, who casts a silent immobilizing charm at the child before raising her arm in preparation.

The teacher regards us solemnly, "Bad influences must be cast out. Weeds must be uprooted. We must PURIFY our nation."

As he says 'purify' the woman's arm begins to sweep down as she cries out "Avada Kedavra".

One blinding flash of green light later, the child in question is no more. He falls to the floor, spread eagled, lifeless eyes glossed over.

The children in the classroom shift in horror on their cold benches before straightening up and turning once more to stare at their teacher. Each has a grim look of determination in their eyes; they will not be the next to fall, the next to die.

Harry sits upright, blinking as his eyes re-adjust to the lighting of the reflection booth. He pushes the chair away from the table with the pensieve, stands up and says to the robed official, "Thank you for the privilege of reflection" before standing and walking out of the booth.

Harry drudges along to his dormitory along with the rest of the 10's. Each of them is exhausted from the ordeal they were forced to relive yet again, though none of them would ever dare to express said feelings aloud. He climbs to his bunk and falls asleep with thoughts of how tomorrow would be his last day as a child.

...

Harry walks down the line of power conduits for the last time. As he woke up today, he was ushered into the preparation halls by the orderlies. He was given a better fitting set of gray robes, a haircut, and a new designation. '11-32-K'.

It is odd to think that tomorrow he might be one of these men before him, bodies turned into living power converters. Or maybe he could choose to enlist in the Militia.

Suddenly he feels an odd twang in the center of his chest. He pauses, lifts he hand as though to press it to his heart when he notices tiny sparks of magic dancing along his fingertips. He stares bewildered at the scene on his hand oblivious to the fact that the magic is now running along his arms and his upper torso.

It feels as though something is rising within him, like water boiling in a pot, threatening to go over. He feels like he could explode, as though release of whatever this pressure is, is the only answer to the rushing sensation he's experiencing.

And as if in answer to his pleas, his eyes snap open and his arms are glued to his side and blue, red, white, violet magical energy pours forth from every inch of his body. He can feel it searing through his veins, pulsing in time to his heart. He sees nothing but the blinding light and then suddenly all is dark. The magical energy recedes. He feels strangely….empty. Then he notices that the lights in the room are out as well. Not only are that, but the magical nodes and power conduits dormant as well.

He blinks several times, shocked, before the harsh realization sinks in. He has done this. Somehow, by some bizarre turn of circumstances he channeled magic through himself, and it shorted the entire conduit out.

There is going to be hell to pay once they get hold of him. If he's even allowed to live.

In that split-second, Harry decides he doesn't want to die. Even if it means disobeying the laws and running from the scene of his accident. He is leaving. He has no idea where to, but he turns and starts running.

Harry bursts through an emergency door on the side of the wing into the cold windy air of the grounds outside. He looks around in desperation before running and leaping up to grasp the sill of a window on the side of the building. He heaves himself up and from there grasps the edge of the roof. He pulls up and up, ignoring the angry cries of his muscles, and starts to sprint along the rooftops of the wing he was in previously.

He hears a low hum as emergency conduits are fired up and a siren begins to blare, the sign that a child is on the run. Hordes of robed officials swarm from the doors of various building and upon seeing his racing form on the roofs begin to fire spells towards him. He darts and dodges, and pushes himself faster than he has ever done so before.

Harry can see the end of the rooftop growing nearing him in the approaching distance. Not 5 feet past that is the high wall of barricade to Sector K.

Two options present themselves as he continues running. One, he stops, lets them catch him, most likely torture him, and then kill him. Two, he takes an almost suicidal jump over the barricade into god knows what of sector J.

The flashback of his supposed 'purity memory' fresh in his head, he decides. Suicidal jump it is.

He puts on one last burst of speed before launching himself out off the rooftop into the void of sky. He barely clears the top of the wall, before rapidly descending towards the ground.

Harry limps along the dark alley. His ankle is throbbing and bent at an odd angle, his arm has a long bloody gash from a sharp piece of glass that was on the ground. He is tired, hungry, and exhausted beyond all belief.

But he is alive.


End file.
